


Somnus Idigus

by Abyssalzones



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild self-harm habits, Night Terrors, Not Canon Compliant, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Weirdmageddon, barely an AU the primary difference is ford and fidds reunited much earlier, stan is alluded to in a past conversation but doesnt actually show up, these old nerds are so fucking married, vaguely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26290726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abyssalzones/pseuds/Abyssalzones
Summary: It's hard to sleep, still, nearly a full year after Bill's defeat.Ford manages to be coaxed to bed by kind words and gentle hands, and wonders just what he did to deserve this kind of understanding.(AKA: Ford has nightmares, keeps trying to put off sleep, Fiddleford manages to lovingly wrangle him to bed.)
Relationships: Fiddleford H. McGucket/Ford Pines
Comments: 5
Kudos: 48





	Somnus Idigus

**Author's Note:**

> Notes on canon divergence from tags: It's been like 5 years since this show ended and I still have many Thoughts about how it should've gone, so anything different in here fits into that general "AU." In this case it's mostly the idea that Fiddleford and Ford reunite long before Weirdmageddon, and Fiddleford stays at the shack at his insistence- and to help dismantle the portal and seal the rift. 
> 
> May write more for this, no promises.
> 
> (mild TW for past abuse and trauma, as well as some very minor self harm)

Contrary to popular assumption, Ford Pines was _not_ putting off sleep on purpose.

  
A lifetime ago maybe, decades past, he would’ve been young and eager and energized. Then, he had plenty of excuses to pull all-nighters, studying away in his own corner of the world as his roommate chided him for not realizing the value of a good night’s rest.  
  
He had legitimate reasons later, too, spending a winter in a cold, boarded up shack, hiding from his own shadow- but that was then, and it had been 30 years, and now, well- things were different. _He_ was different, surely. Bill was gone, his work had slowed dramatically without world-ending deadlines to worry about, and he no longer had to sleep in his old bedroom, where the dread and paranoid vigilance seemed to infect him with the memory of old nightmares resurfacing.

  
It just so happened that right now, he had more important things to do. _Yes,_ he told himself, _that’s reasonable._

  
He was in one of the primary studies of the manor, one of the most often frequented rooms in the considerable expanse of the mansion, busying himself with refining his written documentation of his and Stanley’s exploits across the globe for the past half year. It turned out, to Ford’s ignited enthusiasm and Stan’s confused exhaustion, there were a host of isolated anomalies outside of Gravity Falls’ magnetic range that were worth researching.  
Ford had begun to develop a theory on the phenomenon of “ _straggler”_ cases- outlier incidents outside of regular ranges for these sorts of things- and Stan had nearly shut the case of the new journal he had picked up on his hand.  
  
Ford recalled the argument, which was really less of an _argument_ and more of an understandable (but _annoying_ ) amount of concern about his picking up old habits.  
  
“Don’t I remember something about you wanting to _burn_ your last three journals?”  
  
Ford held back a comment about Stan’s memory- not worth it. “That was different. There’s nothing inherently wrong with it- I’m a creature of habit, and if I’m not going to document our trip, there won’t _be_ a record of our findings.”  
  
Stan had folded his arms, leaning into the door of the boat’s lower deck. “Just promise me you won’t make yourself crazy, alright?”

“I’m not crazy.” Ford stiffened slightly.  
  
“You know what I mean, Ford,” Stan rolled his shoulders, “You do your nerd thing if it makes you feel better, just remember to sleep once in a while. Don’t get all obsessive on me- or I’ll throw that thing off the side of the boat, I swear.” 

And Ford did laugh genuinely at that.

He didn’t end up spending a lot of time on his newest installation of journals ( _Specifically not dubbed journal “4,” as much as he felt it would inevitably disappoint his nephew to hear. This felt deserving of being its own idea- a new chapter in his life, so to speak.)_ while voyaging across the globe. Stanley deserved more of his time, and the environment on the boat wasn’t exactly his first choice for collecting his thoughts-- too cramped, usually with his brother poorly attempting to play a ukulele and making up rhythmless, _terrible_ songs based on whatever struck him at the moment.  
  
Normally, he’d say it was insufferable- which it was, but in a comforting sort of way that only his twin could provide.  
  
The manor, however, was anything but cramped. Fiddleford had commented before about just how much _space_ it really was, compared to what he’d been living in for years past, and Ford would have to agree. Neither of them had grandiose taste, so chipping away at the pretentious decor of the manor to create a homier, much more lived-in environment proved daunting for a while.  
  
When Ford had first arrived after his months out to sea, however, it was already obvious how Fiddleford had influenced every part of the house he’d touched. It seemed animals came and went as they pleased, occupying different spaces or seen wandering around outside- Fiddleford already had experience caring for unwanted animals from when he’d been homeless, as it turned out, and it wasn’t as if the manor didn’t have plenty of room to keep things from being crowded. (Ford now considered removing lethargic, contented possums from cushioned chairs or whatever cabinet they’d crawled into a normal part of his life.)  
  
The once impeccable, neatly-trimmed lawn and courtyard had begun to flourish with plant life and the organized chaos of a lovingly maintained garden. Perhaps most notable was the community vegetable garden that had been started in the expansive front lawn, where Ford would often find Fiddleford giving his own gardening advice or offering sweet tea to those who came. (And there were _always_ people showing up. It was as if the engineer had filled a much-needed niche in Gravity Falls, invisible to the rest of the town.)  
  
And there were the little things, which only Ford could really recognize, and would suddenly feel a wave of nostalgia for the time they’d co-habited together in college, and later in the 80’s. Designs, discarded or forgotten, before their next version was being blueprinted. Miscellaneous projects that had usually been scrapped together, or household items taken apart in the process of being repaired. A solved cubix cube, daring him to scramble it, just to watch the engineer rapidly solve it again.  
  
The rooms that weren’t habited, they would tackle eventually- find some use for everything, leave no space wasted- but for now the manor’s active living space was designated to a few rooms, all closely within orbit of one another. Ford had been offered the ground floor study, not too far away from the garage where Fiddleford often spent time working on projects- and he’d stuttered out something along the lines of _“No, this is- you don’t have to- are you sure? I don’t really need-”_ but had been chided for being too modest for his own good, so he’d come to accept it.  
  
It was a nice space. Roomy, but cozy once it’d been filled with bookshelves and whatever curious items Ford had collected from the shack and his recent adventures across the globe. There was even a fireplace, which was- well, it could’ve been nice. Hypothetically. He still wasn’t going to use it any time soon. _Too warm._  
  
Ford’s old study had been dark, hidden away behind an ornate locked door down an elevator, and he remembered every inch of it. It had seemed perfect, and it was his sanctuary, and then it became a space he was in more often than his own bedroom- and then it was the source of his worst nightmares.

  
_Nightmares you definitely aren’t still having. That’s definitely not why you’re putting off sleeping._   
  
_You’re definitely not lying to yourself._

_  
_He realized then that he hadn’t been working on the journal, and had instead taken to mindlessly drawing ornate spirals in the margins- another old habit he’d never ditched. Ford sighed, breaking out of his lapse in awareness, taking his eyes off the page to eye the old cuckoo clock for the time.  
  
It was late, needless to say.  
  
Ford leaned back into the futon (Chaise? Lounge?) and allowed himself to close his eyes momentarily as his face screwed up into something along the lines of exhausted frustration. Frustration at being exhausted, or exhaustion due to said frustration, either could be true.  
  
Part of him was aware as he picked absently at the burn scar on his wrist that he should _not_ be doing that. That same part was also saying he should _not_ be up at ungodly hours, at his age, and that he should _not_ still be afraid that if he falls asleep, Bill will be there to-

  
“Still burnin’ the candle at both ends, are we?” Fiddleford’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

  
Ford’s eyes shot open, and took a second to sit back up straight to see Fiddleford was already past the door frame- He’d definitely seen him picking the scarred tissue of his wrist. “Oh, Fidds- what are you still doing up?”

  
Fiddleford crossed the gap between them, and took off Ford’s glasses while he spoke. “Currently, trying to get you to tuck in for the night. Unless you were plannin’ on cozying up in here, that is.”

  
“Ah- no, I’ve slept on enough futons for one lifetime, really. I was just working on the Antarctic chapter of Stan and I’s findings.”

 _  
_Fiddleford lifted an eyebrow, “...With the book closed?”

  
And Ford didn’t have much to retaliate with. He broke eye contact, faltering for a second. “You shouldn’t be here worrying about me- you should get some sleep.”

  
For a second, when he had nothing to say in response, Ford thought that maybe he’d comply- then, sitting next to him, Fiddleford took his wrist ( _Gentle. Always exceedingly gentle.)_ and slid back the sleeve of his sweater.  
  
 _Yeah. He definitely saw that._

 _  
_He traced the coarse, scarred part of the skin on his inner wrist with his thumb as he spoke. “Have you considered ‘t all that maybe you need somebody to worry about you?”  
  
 _Damn it._ Ford’s heart did something in his chest that reminded him of college, and of long nights spent working. _Why do you have to be so understanding and patient and kind hearted, and why do I have to be so difficult?_

 _  
_He looked back to his wrist, and sighed. “It’s just- something ridiculous.”

  
At that, he got an incredulous, concerned look. But _concerned_ was the part that made it dangerous.

  
Ford broke easily. “I just keep thinking if I go to sleep- if I’m unconscious at all, even momentarily, he’ll be there. I keep seeing him, and I- I know it’s not really _him,_ he’s _dead_ \- but he still won’t let me sleep.” He wanted to dig his nails into his wrists, but held his free hand to his face instead, rubbing his temple. “This should be over. I should be _over_ it.”  
  
They’d had similar talks. Ford wasn’t exactly a person who took easily to sharing his grief, but something about his old friend and partner compelled him to open up every time. While his own brother had practically pried his traumas out of him, or witnessed the effects of it accidentally, Fiddleford would just ask, hold his hand, and listen- and Ford would always return the favor and ease his anxieties. It was a wordless kind of mutual understanding he didn’t share with anyone else.  
  
So needless to say, Fiddleford knew all too well what seeing Bill in his nightmares again meant. It wasn’t news- he’d seen him in similar states before, at the shack, where the walls held all the old trauma that sought him out in his sleep.  
  
(Once, Fiddleford had made his way down to the basement from where he’d been staying in Ford’s old room, looking for a blueprint that he couldn’t leave alone for the night without it keeping him up- it was one of the rare occasions where Ford _had_ been sleeping on the cot he’d brought down, but clearly he was restless even in sleep. He tried not to think about the look on his face when he’d gently shaken him awake- so _concerned._ Still soft.)

  
They were both quiet for a second, and Fiddleford took the time to lace their fingers together. Five fit very well between his abnormal six. “It’s not exactly easy to kick somethin’ that big- especially when you’ve been carryin’ it around for thirty years.” And, damn him, Ford did look up to meet his eyes again. “But I’d like to help lessen the load, if you let me.”

  
He really did have such nice eyes.  
  
Ford smiled, and realized just then how inviting the idea of a warm bed was at that moment.

  
“Alright, you win. Sleep it is.”

  
A younger Fiddleford may have taken the opportunity to revel in the victory of hearing the _notoriously stubborn Stanford Pines_ saying the words “ _You win,_ ” but the only hint of his satisfaction was a pleased smile across his face. “Sun’s not even up over the horizon- we may get eight whole hours yet.”  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Ironically I wrote most of this at 3 am


End file.
